


On a Song, a Wing and a Prayer

by CastielsLieutenant



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsLieutenant/pseuds/CastielsLieutenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the BBC's yearly bash, an up-and-coming singer runs into a rather famous actor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr Brightside

How? How do you go from veritable obscurity to singing at corporate events?

The answer, apparently, is around five years of singing lessons and getting very, _very_ lucky at a work Christmas party. Last year, you thought it would be a bit of fun to take on the work karaoke competition – and let's face it, the tone-deaf girl from the South Pacific team was hardly going to beat you – and see if you could raise the roof a little. That 'raise the roof a little' turned out to be one _hell_ of a performance on Train's _Drops of Jupiter_ and a follow-up later that night with the entire division cheering you on as you ripped up Joan Jett's _I Hate Myself For Loving You_.

It transpired that your big, big, BIG boss was there – the CEO of one of the largest travel firms internationally – and he heard you sing. Not only was he impressed with your talent (much to the joy of your desperate singing teacher who seemed to think that starting a band would be EXCELLENT for you), but he asked you to sing at a corporate event in Los Angeles. The event in L.A was glittering at its lowest point and _definitely_ outside the norm for a small-town girl like yourself. From there, your singing career simply _snowballed_.

Which is how you found yourself here, at a star-studded end-of-year bash hosted by the BBC. Yes, _that_ BBC. You still can't get over that you're here. Surely they should have hired Adele or someone? Oh, wait, she's over there, talking to someone...

“There she is, our little pop princess!”

Good grief. Please God, don't let it be him.

Turning slowly, you force a neutral look onto your face to disguise your revulsion. The event manager, Simeon Smith-Worthington, is bearing down on you like an overgrown pile of compost. When you met the repulsive man a week ago, he absolutely disgusted you. Skinny as a rake, well-groomed if a little plain, but the most over-bearing, misogynistic tyrant ever to walk across a stage. You can't help but scowl a little, losing the fight to keep a straight face, as he approaches, straightening his tie. “Come on, they aren't going to wait forever. Now remember, keep it to the classics. No original rubbish. There's going to be a lot of drunk rich people out there, so we're going to give them the equivalent of a high-class pub gig.”

Ugh, just when you thought it couldn't get any more degrading, particularly when Simeon _knows_ you do rock, not pop. Not that you mind doing covers – it got you where you are today. But the way Simeon talks about it, you'd think you were some Dolly Parton wannabe from Hicksville, not a corporate travel professional who moves occasionally in the music industry. You smile politely and tell Simeon you have it down. Just the usual, then. A little Robbie, perhaps some Killers, Kings of Leon, then classics like Bryan Adams, Guns 'n' Roses and Bon Jovi. Round out the night with a little Kansas, Toto and Europe and you'll be all set.

You head to the bar to grab a quick drink before heading on-stage. It's sensible to have your vocal chords warmed up before singing and every good singer knows that a drop of high quality alcohol enhances the sound. Ordering a Grand Marnier on the rocks, you sip it slowly as you wait for the final tech checks to be completed.

“Fucking overbearing _monster_ , isn't he?”

The voice behind you startles you; its rich, baritone quality shooting straight down your spine and causing goosebumps. You turn slowly to face the tall, pale man behind you. He holds a tumbler of scotch between his long, elegant fingers and his cerulean eyes seem to widen a little when you face him. You'd know that face anywhere, but then, most of the faces you've seen here tonight you would know anywhere. But that aquiline profile, the cupid-bow mouth, the long and completely nibble-worthy neck...

“Oh _GOD_ , yes. Honestly, I know I'm not bloody _famous_ , but you'd think he'd show a _little_ courtesy. Have you worked with him before?” There, you can still put a sentence together. That's what happens when you play corporate gigs. The star-struck persona seems to wane in the presence of celebrity. The tall man chortles and takes a quick swig of his scotch. Your eyes wander while he's not looking; over the sharp, black suit with white shirt and no tie, the freshly polished shoes, the immaculately groomed fingernails and the slicked-back, almost ginger waves. Yes, you know who this is.

“Some time back, yes. Complete tyrant then and I see he hasn't changed a bit.” He pauses, looking down at his drink, then gives you a shy grin. “Terribly sorry, you looked a little lonely at the party and I thought I'd try my luck and keep you company for a bit. I'm Ben...” then as an afterthought, “Edict. Though thinking about it now, I suppose that was entirely macho of me and you might not want the company.” The man you recognise as Sherlock extends his free hand to you and you shake it politely, responding with your name in kind.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ben. I must say, I am rather a fan of your work and I'm happy for the company.”

You are pleasantly surprised when he rather courteously brings your knuckles to his lips and air-kisses them, too genteel to make actual contact with you. He smiles whilst he gives you a quick look over during this gesture. Subtle, but it almost causes you to roll your eyes, perhaps with a twinge of hypocrisy, as you were just doing the same thing... at least, you think you might have been. Jesus, _okay_ , so you're not the world's sexiest singer. You rather thought Kylie Minogue had that particular role cornered off the market years ago. But you _are_ good and people often underestimate you.

Still, you've done your best tonight to accentuate what little cleavage you have, come to happy compromise between stripper shoes and flats by wearing your most comfortable kitten heels and a smart black dress that is exceedingly flattering and ends at the knees with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. Your make-up is classic minimalist – a light base to stop reflection, white eye-shadow with a touch of sparkle in the corners of your eyes, black eyeliner and deep red lipstick to make the most of your full pout. Of course, this isn't what you'll be on stage in, but you had planned to do a little celeb meet and greet before that. Compared to Ben, however, you feel rather plain. “Thank you. These gigs are normally full of people I don't know, but I think tonight I'm feeling a little out of place.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, I'm standing here talking to you. Not the run-of the mill day for me, as it happens.”

“Oh, stop! I'm nothing special. This is just an annual piss-up that Steven and Mark drag me to once a year to make sure that I don't get too attached to my off-season hermitage.” You chuckle into your liqueur, taking a small sip and enjoying the way it soothes your throat and warms you from the inside. The ice is starting to melt, giving it the sharp kick you like so well. Ben watches you carefully as you consume your drink. “So are you a fan of Grand Marnier, or just taking it out for a spin?”

“It serves a practical purpose.”

“What? Getting hedonistically drunk and dancing on the table?”

This draws a genuine laugh from you. This man has a smart-alec answer for everything. “Hardly. Not _really_ the type of alcohol for getting sensationally slaughtered.”

“Then?”

“I'm working tonight.”

Ben laughs at that, finishing his scotch and placing the tumbler on the bar. “No-one here is _working_ tonight, love. That's _why_ we're here. It's the big night off.”

You smile evenly. “You don't even know why I'm here, do you? Or who I am, for that matter? Because you certainly never asked.”

Ben blushes faintly at this recrimination and raises a hand to his hair, self-consciously patting it into place. “I... uh, well... I assumed...”

“That what, I was a production assistant or some such?”

“Along those lines, yes.”

“So tell me, Sherlock; given that the BBC studios are relatively small and that you would probably agree that you've run into everyone here at some time or another during your run on the show, don't you think it's a little _strange_ that a new production assistant would be invited to a glittering booze bash like this?”

He's a little stumped for words as you smile sweetly and cross your arms over your chest. He offers the next suggestion a little weakly. “Press?”

“Hardly. I can barely take a lens cap off.”

“Not wait-staff, though?”

“Not for years.”

“Then -?”

“There you are!” The undeniable sound of Simeon ruining the only conversation you're ever likely to have with this stunning man explodes from behind you. Your shoulders sag as you feel Simeon move to your back and place his spindly hands on your shoulders. “You're late, you should have been in make-up ten minutes ago!”

“Sorry, Simeon, she was with me.”

The stage manager looks at your companion and starts violently. “Oh, my _word_ , I'm sorry for intruding, Mr. Cumberbatch, but I really do need to whisk this wayward woman away from you for now.”

Ben smiles pleasantly at your simpering slave-driver, but shoots you a side-long cheeky wink. “No cause for alarm. We were just chatting. Delightful conversation, I must say. Very spirited. I do hope you'll say goodbye before you leave the party tonight?”

“I'll certainly try!” Simeon shoves you in the direction of backstage as you call over your shoulder. Ben seems to be laughing heartily but not unkindly at your predicament as he watches you disappear behind the stage. You groan as Simeon stuffs you into a chair and turns it face him.

“Now listen here,” he hisses. “You are _not_ to bother the guests. You are _not_ to fraternise with them unless they speak to you first, in which case you extricate yourself at the earliest opportunity that it is polite to do so. You are here to do a job – one gig, that's it – and you go home after that. Know. Your. Place.” He storms away to go yell at someone else as you turn back to the brightly lit mirror.

“Know. Your. Place,” you mock your reflection as you alter your make-up for your performance. Still, it's a little difficult to keep your mind off Ben and your conversation. He may have given you the once-over, but weren't you just as guilty of doing that to him?

It's a quick-change event; into your black jeans and leather boots, swapping out your dress for your olive green shirt with the chains attached to it and your black leather jacket thrown on for good measure. The eye-liner is thicker, now, to match the smoky eye-shadow you've layered on and your refreshed lipstick. A spritz of hairspray to wild up your already wavy hair and you are every inch the rockstar. Jesse, your guitarist and frequent partner in crime, careens past you in his usual hipster/rock get up he saves for these occasions. “C'mon! You look fine, get a move on! We're going to be late.”

You appraise your reflection. The woman in the mirror isn't the same person you were five minutes ago. No-one messes with you like this and you'd _love_ to see Simeon try. _This_ is your stage persona, the queen of the stage; answering to no-one and beholden to the same.

You can't _wait_ to see Benedict's face.

 


	2. Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict's about to find out that you're DEFINITELY not the wait-staff...

It's the same before any performance; the sweating hands, the nervous twitch, the racing heartbeat. Your toes bunch and release themselves inside your comfortable leather boots that you bought specifically for gigs, because quite frankly heels are an absolute death trap on-stage and leather boots with buckles are sexy as all hell. You wait in the semi-darkness behind the curtain, listening to the revelry on the other side.

_Benedict is somewhere out there_ .

The thought both calms you down and makes you nervous as hell. The stage persona you project is sniggering to herself inside your head, pointing out what total arse you're making of yourself. He's just a guy, isn't he? Just like all the rest. The ones who think you're 'just another girl' until you sing. Going to be a bit of a shock for him when he finds out the contrast to the sweet girl he met earlier, then, won't it?

The girl who curls up on her beanbag reading trashy sci-fi in her room with a cup of milky tea on rainy weekends is tutting at this turn of thought, peering at you over her book and making the very valid point that Ben wasn't completely up himself, was actually quite kind and gentlemanly and there was no reason whatsoever to be horrible about him just because you were smarting from Simeon's indelicate handling. If anything, having support in the audience should help make you more confident and put on a better show.

Sometimes, you really  _love_ your logical side.

You can hear Simeon out on the stage, introducing your band to the raucous crowd outside. You take a deep breath as the curtain pulls back and you look out over the sprawling crowd, your eyes searching as best they can for him through the overpowering stage lighting.

_There_ .

He's standing by the bar, nursing another scotch, body angled in the direction you were herded off.  _Is he waiting for me to come_ _ back _ ? The thought seems preposterous, but you are aware enough of body language to deduce that it is probable. A smile creeps across your face as you step up to the microphone and roll your shoulders back, shouting into it. “Good evening, BBC!”

You watch Ben's head flick up and his mouth drop, causing you to let go of a giggle that is lost in the roar of the assembled. You carry on, regardless. “Are we having a good time tonight?”

An approving answer. “Well I think it's high-time we  _really_ got this party started, don't you?” On cue, Jesse starts in on  _Mr. Brightside,_ a classic track by The Killers. You watch as the people below you scream at each other excitedly. You grin as you lock eyes with Ben as you belting out the lyrics. He downs the tumbler of scotch, puts it on the bar, shakes his head with laughter, then bounds into the crowd, working his way forward towards the stage. He makes it just as you arrive at “it started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this...”

“ It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss!” Ben's beautiful mouth forms around the words, but you can't hear him over the noise. He starts dancing to your music, to which you are secretly impressed. The man can cut a rug, which is saying something given that he  _is_ tall and lanky. Most of the tall and lanky guys you know can barely coordinate all four limbs, let alone dance well, but Ben whirls to the beat, bopping his head along, ginger waves falling akimbo in perfect rhythm.

No-one bothered to tell you that trying to concentrate on a handsome man dancing and singing a song yourself would be as difficult as it actually is. You miss a couple of cues – ones that you could particularly get away with as a little artistic flair – but Ben grins up at up you as you switch from The Killers to Kings of Leon, bounce through to Summer of '69 and rock the joint with Livin' On A Prayer.

As the crowd screams insanely and huffs to catch its breath, you wink over at Jesse, who knows  _exactly_ what you mean. You turn back to the audience as you watch Ben reluctantly extricate himself from the crowd and order another drink, leaning against the bar to continue watching you. “So, I think we should slow things down a little, catch our breath. God knows  _I_ could use a drink.” The crowd laughs and Ben smiles at you, raising his tumbler in a toast to your remark. You reach down and grab your water bottle, taking a long swig. “You know, with all the progression in music today, it's the moments that we look back on the songs we love and remember where we were when we first heard them. What we were doing. Who we were with. Tonight, perhaps, you'll hear a song, meet a person... maybe it will be the start of something amazing... and when you look back, you'll remember that song as 'your song'.” The crowd is quiet, hanging off your every word. Your eyes are locked on Benedict's; his face soft and gentle as he tilts his head to the side slightly. You look away and smile, chewing on your bottom lip. “Anyway. This is Robbie Williams'  _Angels_ . I trust you know it.”

The audience _aww_ s at you and pairs up drunkenly. This song is going to need a little more concentration, so you close your eyes as Jesse and the band strike up and play the opening.

“ I sit and wait... does an angel contemplate my fate?” The words drip off your lips, deep and resonant as you envision ginger curls standing in front of you, a large hand gently caressing your face. “And do they know, the places that we go, when we're grey and old?”

Your eyes open slowly, taking in the slow-dancing crowd. “Cause I've been told, that salvation, lets their wings unfold...” Arms extending slowly for emphasis, you drop your chin slightly to let the sound become fuller and more rich. Retracting your arms, you wrap them around your waist and close your eyes again. “So when I'm lyin' in my bed, thoughts running through my head... and I feel that love is dead...”

Eyes open. Ben's not at the bar any more. He's right below you. Your eyes lock with his. No mistaking this now.

“ I'm loving angels instead.”

The crowd roars along with you, a hurricane of noise as you sing, but you only see Benedict's face as he sings with you. You feel the power build and unleash it in your signature style.

“ And through it all, he offers me protection, a lot of love and affection, whether I'm right or wrong... and down the waterfall, wherever it may take me, I know that life won't break me, when I come to call... he won't forsake me -” you hold out the microphone to have the crowd sing and they don't let you down.

“ I'M LOVING ANGELS INSTEAD!”

The rest of the song passes in a blur, a really  _brilliant_ performance, even by your own high standards. The people scream and shout themselves hoarse as you grin and give a little bow, your eyes flickering to Ben, who is beaming and clapping heartily. The gig progresses as smoothly as you could have hoped for and – as sometimes happens – it is over too soon. The clock strikes ten just as you finish up your final number and the DJ is due to take over. The band stagger off excitedly to go meet and greet with the crowd as you help Jesse unplug the guitars and put them back in their cases.

“ So what was all that about?”

You lift your head to look in your guitarist's direction. He's not looking at you; rather, he's winding amp cords and stowing them away safely. “Say what?”

“ You missed a few cues, then go all out on  _Angels_ . I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything – you sounded fuckin'  _great_ tonight, but is there something you're not sharing with the class?”

_Ginger waves and a voice like a well-tuned cello_ . “No, everything's fine.”  _Liar._

Jesse looks up, finally, grinning like he's just found out your ridiculous childhood nickname. “You met someone, didn't you?”

“No.”

“C'mon, I know that tone of voice. You met someone out there  _and he's famous_ .” Jesse claps his hands and hoots hysterically. “Oh, that's  _precious_ ! Little Miss 'I Don't Get Starstruck' is  _actually_ starstruck! Ha ha ha!”

“Dude, shut up and pack the gear,” you chuckle, throwing a light punch to his arm. You know he doesn't mean it in a nasty way – you've always made fun of each other. The pack-up goes swiftly even without the other band members, who are already at the bar, being lauded for their performances. Jesse watches you carefully as you gather up your kit bag in which you stashed your pretty dress. “You know, you could go back out there.”

“What's that?”

“I'll keep Simeon occupied, you go find gingerlocks.”

“I don't – wait,  _gingerlocks_ ?”

Jesse chuckles. “The ginger-headed guy dancing near the stage. Two and two, he's the one you met earlier.”

“I told you I-”

“Yes, sweetheart, I know and you were lying through your back teeth.” He gestures to the entrance to the backstage area. “Go on, get out of here. Have some fun. Go find him.”

“You're awesome, you know that? I don't tell you enough.”

“Yeah, yeah. You owe me one. Now get!”

Slinging your handbag over your shoulder, you contemplate getting changed. It wasn't a particularly strenuous set, so you don't smell all that bad. Content to pick up the kit later – or just to text Jesse to pick it up – you peer outside the door. Simeon is nowhere in sight.  _Awesome_ .

You sneak off into the party, congratulated all around by people who had seen you play. The DJ is currently playing something with a sexy, pounding beat and the throng of bodies is making it very warm in the building. You shrug inside your leather jacket, a passing thought to taking it off.

“So... _not_ wait-staff.”

You fight off the stupid grin that forces its way onto your face and wrestle to get your expression back to something a little smug. Your turn and look up into the flushed face of Ben. “Definitely  _not_ wait-staff.”

“You were incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“No, really, you were  _incredible_ . That has to be one of the best live gigs I've ever seen.” His sincerity is adorable; all wide-eyed blue and serious mouth. It's taking a  _lot_ of self-restraint not to kiss the look off his face. You're not even entirely sure that the move would be welcome.

“I... uh... I just came to say goodbye, like you asked.”

Ben's face falls. Literally. His eyebrows droop, the corners of his mouth sag and his eyes look sad. “But... I thought...”

“If Simeon catches me out here -”

“Then Simeon can go fuck himself.”

“Please, I don't want to start a fight.”

Ben looks contrite after his outburst, if a bit miserable. “It's just,” he starts, running a hand through his already mussed hair. “I wanted, y'know, to get to know you a little better.”

_Christ, why did it have to be him_ ?

You look over your shoulder quickly, a plan forming in your head. Turning back to Ben, you step closer so that he can hear you. “Alright, if we're going to do this, we're going to have to do this quickly. Do you see the stage door from here?”

“ Yes?”

“ Good. About three feet behind it is a fire exit that runs right up to the roof of this building. I know, because I checked myself earlier this afternoon. Meet me up there in five minutes.”

“ But... where are you going?” Ben asks as you wriggle past him. You turn and look over your shoulder, giving him a cheeky wink.

“ Getting provisions, of course. Five minutes. Don't be late.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply - I'm not BC OR Robbie Williams. All copyrighted material performed as such is their ownership. This is just a little fantasy work I'm sharing with others.


	3. Light 'Em Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict, you, scotch and a rooftop. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

Thank God you hadn't been stupid enough to take your leather jacket off when you were downstairs, because you would undoubtedly be  _ freezing  _ right now. The rooftop is cold from the icy London air and the sky is a dark charcoal from the snow clouds that have been dumping down all week. Thankfully, tonight is chilly, but it's not snowing. The bottle of scotch you nicked from the bartender and the two tumblers you also 'commandeered' are sitting beside you on snowy bricks, ready and waiting. You tap your foot restlessly.  _ Five minutes _ , you said. Five. Can the man not count or something? You reach into your bag and pull out your tablet, flicking to your music. If you can't hang with a hot guy, you might as well listen to some.

It is, however, mildly embarrassing when Benedict finally opens the door to the roof and finds you dancing like a lunatic to  _ Radioactive _ . You decide to take the high road; carrying on dancing, whirling across the roof, sending snowflakes flying. “I feel it in my bones, enough to make my system blow...”

“ Welcome to the new age, to the new age...” Benedict chimes in, scooting smoothly over to your make-shift dance floor and hip-bumping you. You laugh, returning the move, before busting out some truly terrible popping and locking, to which Ben responds with a Michael Jackson-esque spin and shoulder pop.

_Oh, so we're playing it like that, are we?_

The song kicks over to one of your favourite songs, causing you to strut a few steps away from Ben. His face clouds. “Wha – who's this?”

“Oh come  _ on _ , you haven't heard of Marianas Trench?”

“ Can't say I have.”

“ You're about to.”

_ Desperate Measures _ pounds from the speakers as you parade around him, singing along. “Gonna, make a, heart-throb out of me, just a bit of minor surgery, these desperate times call for desperate measures...”

The beat kicks in and suddenly you're hauled chest to chest with your companion. He grins conspiratorially. “You owe me a dance if I'm to be initiated.”

Well, truly, that's a proposition you'd have to be stupid to turn down. Good thing you're not as bad a dancer as you like to be. You're instantly into stage-mode; up on your toes, hips twisting, shoulders leading your body, then juxtaposing. The chorus pulses as Ben twirls you under his arm. “I can't let this, go when I got you right where I want you, I've been pushing for this for so long...”

“ Kiss me, just once, for luck, these are desperate measures now...” you sing over the top of the music as Ben dips you. For a moment, as he stares down at you, you almost think he might actually take you up on the offer. But then you're upright and spinning away from him as the song winds to a close, laughing and out of breath. Something slower is next, so you take a minute to grab a drink. Lifting the bottle of scotch and shaking it in his direction, you give him a hopeful look. “Still keen on getting hedonistically drunk?”

“ I think I'm on my way, but sure.” Benedict joins you and grabs a glass, holding it steady so you can pour a good measure of alcohol into it. He lifts it appreciatively and takes a good swallow, leaning back on the brick wall. “How did you...”

“ I told you, I was getting provisions. Speaking of which, you're a little late.”

“Sorry, I was accosted by Steven trying drunkenly to introduce me to a pretty young thing who I  _ think _ may or may not work in the costume department for  _ Downton Abbey _ . It was loud and my head's a bit fuzzy.”

His casual remark shouldn't bite so hard, dammit. You only met him a few hours ago. The scotch burns on its way down your throat, a small piece of comfort to the ice forming in your veins. “Huh.”

“ Yeah, told her I couldn't stick around to chat, though. Someone was waiting for me.”

“ Pretty. Huh.”

“Seriously?  _ That's  _ what you take away from this?” He shakes his head, reaching for the bottle to top himself up. “God, what  _ is _ it with girls getting jealous?”

“ I'm not jealous!” Okay, that might have come out a little shouty, as evident by Ben's raised eyebrow. You sigh. You're not much of a game-player. “Alright, yeah, okay, maybe a little bit.”

“ Really? You admit it just like that?”

He's looking at you as if you've grown another head, so you shrug. “Yeah, I guess. No-one likes to hear that the hot guy they just met is checking out another woman.”

Ben bites his lower lip, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Hot guy, you say?”

“ Dude, don't even. Half an hour ago, I got this from my guitarist, I don't need it from you, too.”

“ Okay, okay. It's just... I'm flattered.”

“ Right. Okay.”

“ Yes.” Out of intelligent things to say for the moment, you look out over the snow-topped roofs, reaching into your pocket for a cigarette. Ben eyes up your lighter. “Can I borrow that after you?” You hand it over, taking a long drag as he lights up himself. Handing the lighter back, he sucks in the smoke before puffing it in a steady stream out into the frosty air. “Didn't think I'd be here tonight.”

“ Bit of a homebody?” A casual remark with a hint of sarcasm, to which Benedict grins slightly.

“ No, not talking about being at the party. I meant up here. On the roof.”

“Not the  _ usual _ place for merriment, I'll grant you, but pleasant, nonetheless.”

“ Quite so.” Another puff. “Your accent... you're not entirely British?”

“ Not really. Just here on business, I'm afraid.”

“Ah.” There's a note of disappointment and you realise you put it there. You were sort of hoping that would wouldn't have to answer  _ that _ question for a little while longer. “So...”

“ So... when I am going back to wherever it is that I sprang from?”

“I was trying not to ask that, but since you brought it up, when  _ are _ you leaving?”

“ Not for a couple of weeks. I have a few meetings, catching up with family here, seeing the sights, that kind of thing. I don't get over here very often, so I'm trying to make the most of the time I have. The rest of the band go home tomorrow night, though.”

The darkness that had made itself seem present on Ben's face lifts a little as he takes a thoughtful drag. “I see. Do you spend a lot of time in London?”

“ Half the time. The other half I'm up in Manchester to see the other side of the family.”

“ Well... I mean, if you're not busy... that is, tomorrow...”

“ What, when we've both recovered from terrific hangovers?”

“I  _ was _ going to suggest we suffer through together over a coffee and a couple of aspirin, but if you want to agonise alone, that can be arranged.”

“I'm not nearly hammered enough for a hangover.” You top up your own scotch and swig it down quickly, refilling your glass a second time. “But I  _ am _ working on it.”

“ So, was that a sideways yes?”

You sip thoughtfully on the alcohol, considering his proposal. “I'm free tomorrow, I guess. I was just going to spend some time checking out the landmarks and local larks.”

“That's a definite yes, then?”

A smile threatens on your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, we can hang tomorrow. I'm cool with that.”

Benedict winks at you. “Don't sound so excited.”

“Don't sound so damn cocky. Your glass is empty. Hand it the fuck over.” You refill his tumbler and watch him after you hand it back as he chugs it back and keeps on par with you. You top both glasses up and lean back on the wall, looking up at the night sky. “I'm not used to the cold. It doesn't snow where I'm from.”

Ben raises an eyebrow as he puts the scotch to one side. “Really?”

“Yep. Blazing hot ninety percent of the time. Like baking yourself in God's own oven.”

He chuckles – a deep, throaty sound - and it makes you shiver lightly... or is that the cold? “The rain gets to me here, sometimes. If I'm filming here, some weekends I just... I have to get away. It's like the damp creeps into your veins during the day and then at night, well, the cold turns it to ice. I think that's why so many people in London feel so lonely.”

“It's called SAD.”

“Yes, I know it's sad.”

“No! I mean, that feeling. S.A.D – seasonal affective disorder. It's the reason people feel lonely and depressed in winter. It's an actual, medical thing. Look it up.”

Benedict's face is a picture as he laughs disbelievingly. “Talented singer  _and_ intelligent to boot. You truly are a marvel of genetics. You're  _sure_ you're not working for the BBC?”

“ When was the last time you knew someone who was talented AND intelligent working at the BBC?”

Ben's hand gently clamps over your mouth. “Shh, don't let Stephen Fry hear you say that.” You giggle, finally feeling the alcohol taking effect as his hand slides down your mouth a little. He giggles back at you and before you know it, the pair of you are snorting with laughter. Your companion tries to straighten up as he goes for the scotch again. “Shh! They'll HEAR us up here!”

“ Pfft, come off it. Everyone's too drunk or trying to get there. No-one even knows we're up here.” Benedict wriggles his eyebrows at you, causing you to burst out laughing all over again, almost tipping over backwards and off the wall. “Oh GOD, now that... THAT is sexy. Absolutely. That's GOT to be your signature move with the ladies.”

“ Damn right, it is. No one resists the eyebrows.”

“ You're a total loony.”

“ Takes one to know one.”

Suddenly, it's right there – that instant connection you feel with someone when you know that you two are going to be friends for life, but something a little warmer settles in your chest as you watch Ben pick up the now close-to-empty bottle of scotch and start chugging straight from it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I guess it does.”

Once the bottle is empty, you and Ben stagger to the stairs and try to navigate down to a level with lifts. You barely manage to stop yourself being caught by Simeon, but he sweeps by without a backwards glance, on the arm of a handsome young thing from Marketing... or so Benedict tells you. Luckily, your hotel is fairly close to the gig, so Ben rather gallantly proclaims that he will walk you to your door.

Unfortunately, it appears that the pair of you consumed rather a lot of very fine scotch, which has made walking a little difficult yet infinitely amusing. When at last, you make it to the steps of the hotel, you take a step up and turn to face Benedict. “Well, I have to say... as far as company goes, you don't entirely suck.”

“ You're cute. I like you,” Ben giggles, wrapping his arms around your waist and snuggling into you. The move is quite sobering – you're not the type to initiate first contact and you'll be  _damned_ if he makes it into your room in this state. You rub his back gently, hug him equally so.

“ Come on, you great big softy. It's time for bed and YOU have to go home.”

“ I'll sleep here.”

“ You CAN'T sleep in my room.”

“ No... I mean, on the steps. I'll sleep here.”

“ Worst idea ever, Ben. It's freezing. You'll die.”

“ 's not that cold.”

“ Good _night_ B.” You fish a business card out of your bag and tuck it carefully into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Call me in the morning so we can get coffee.”

Ben reluctantly lets go and potters to the side of the road to hail a cab. You make sure he gets  _into_ the cab – rather than falling out of it – before making your way up to your room. It's quick to get out of your clothes and to flop into bed, but as you are drifting off, you hear a text alert. Reaching over, you flick your phone on and read it, then smile.

_By the way, she wasn't as pretty as you._ _\- B_ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned this episode are Radioactive - Imagine Dragons and Desperate Measures - Marianas Trench. I'm assuming you've heard of the first. Do me a favour and listen to the second. They. Are. Awesome.
> 
> As usual, I am still not BC and I am not affiliated with either band mentioned. The title of this episode is named for Fall Out Boy's - My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up). Not affiliated with them, either.


	4. Because We Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers are horrible and family commitments threaten to impede your London adventure...

Whoever invented the concept of alarm clocks should, in your humble opinion, be rounded up then shot, drawn and quartered for the misery they have inflicted upon you this morning. Granted, your phone is piping a cheerful Bon Jovi song at you, but even that isn't enough to expunge the urge to hurl it at the wall. The pounding in your head isn't as bad as you thought it might be, but then you have the benefit of youth and a bit more weight on you. Even at university, you could drink your friends under the table.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you rub your face and switch off the phone before it starts making too much noise. Your stage clothes are all over the floor, suggesting you were less coordinated than you thought you were last night. Staggering to your suitcase, you pull out a pair of black slacks and a grey tee with a symbolic rock emblem splashed on the front. Underwear is next, along with a pair of mostly clean socks. When you live out of a suitcase, sometimes it's a bit difficult to discern what is clean and what isn't.

Big plans for today, anyway. First, food, then out to see Buckingham Palace, maybe go to Camden Markets, perhaps the Tower of London? Though, really, you _should_ probably check in on your family. They're probably worrying about you...

_Rrrrrrrrrring..._

The room telephone shrilly cuts in on your thoughts and makes you jump slightly. You check the clock next to it – it's only eight thirty. Who would be calling you at eight thirty? You stumble to the white instrument of brain torture and lift the receiver, pressing it to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, ma'am. This is reception.”

“Yes?”

“We've received a message for you and have been asked to pass it along. Mr. B regrets that he cannot make your breakfast meeting and conveys his most sincere apologies.”

 _Mister B?_ The name rings faint bells, but you can't really remember why. “Oh. Okay then.”

“He further says that you should enjoy your time in London and should you be free tonight, he would be more than delighted to accompany you for dinner.”

“Ah.” Small problem. You kind of promised your over-bearing mother you'd look in on the London-half of your family tonight. “Um. Can you... can you respond to... Mister...”

“Mr. B?”

“Yeah, that's it.” _What kind of total prat calls himself Mr. B? It's like being stalked by Rowan Atkinson._ “Could you please return my best and let him know that I'll be unavailable this evening, but should he be free for lunch, I'll be returning to the hotel at one.”

“Very good, ma'am. I'll pass along your message.” There's an audible click and a dial tone to indicate that the receptionist has hung up on you. You stare at the receiver blankly. Mr. B? Who in the _hell_ were you with last night?

Jesse. Jesse will know. Jesse always knows because he makes it his business to keep handy information on you making an idiot out of yourself on file for the next time he wants to make fun of you. It's infuriating, but you can't help but laugh. Besides, it's not like you don't do exactly the same thing to him. Rescuing your phone from where you nearly threw it, you speed-dial your guitarist and wait for him to pick up. As per normal, it takes a while to get through to him and when you do, it's a groggy voice that answers. “Ullo?”

“Jess, it's me.”

“Christ onna bike, girlie, it's fuck-all o'clock in the morning. What are _you_ doing up?”

“Trying desperately to remember what I did last night after the gig. I just got a message passed on by reception from a Mr. B.” Jesse chuckles darkly down the phone at you and you frown. “What? What did I do last night?”

“You _really_ don't remember at all?”

“For _fuck_ 's sake, Jesse, stop pussy-footing around! Tell me what happened!”

“Well, last I saw of you, you were hassling a bartender for a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses.” Well, that didn't seem too bad. “Right after you were waylaid by Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Oh. Shit.

Mister. B.

Of _course_.

“Oh fucking hell.”

“You mean to say you didn't wake up next to gingerbatch? More of a way then a laid, then?”

“Shut up.”

“Girl, your game is slipping. But I don't care. I have to be at the airport in eight hours, so I'm going to get some more sleep.”

“Did you pick my kit bag up?”

“Yup. I'll have it dropped at reception for you. Don't forget it, your dress is in there.”

“Cheers, dude.”

“Mmmhmm. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” For the second time that morning, you are hung up on and left with a dead receiver in your hand. You push your free palm against your forehead. _Fuck_. It's all coming back to you now; the rooftop singing and dancing, the vague breakfast plans, the warm hug on the steps, the text message before you fell asleep...

_Text message!_

You quickly check your phone for any new messages, but there's only one from Jesse, telling you he'd left the party with a sensationally hot blonde whom he was quite keen on doing ridiculously wicked things to, providing it was consensual. You snort – not the best of your habits – and flick to Ben's message from last night.

 _By the way, she wasn't as pretty as you._ _\- B_.

Warmth rises on your cheeks and you can't stop yourself from smiling. The fact that he felt the need to text you minutes after saying goodbye was adorable. You toy with the idea of texting him back, but hold off. This is a good hotel – they'll convey your message to him.

_Oh Christ, lunch with Benedict!?_

The thought is a little alarming. You barely recall a half-arsed promise to suffer through your hangovers together over coffee and realise that he must've thought you'd be meeting him for breakfast. You moan, falling back on the bed, rubbing your face. Luck must be smiling on you, because thank GOD he didn't hold you to it.

But... that means that you still have to get dressed and do some sight-seeing. If – and it is a _mighty_ if – he's free for lunch, he'll be here at one. That's only – check the clock, it's nine – _shit_ , that's only four hours. Where are you supposed to _go_ and come back in four fucking hours!?

You suddenly realise that panicking isn't helping the situation at all and slow your breathing down. You're being silly. It's just Ben; the sweet, uncomplicated guy who danced you on the roof last night, got splendiferously drunk with you and walked you home. This is not Benedict Cumberbatch, international movie star and all-round hunk. You are not interviewing him. You are having _lunch_ with him to get to know him better. Just like a friend would. A naughty smile plays on your lips. Oh, but you know that you look at him as ever so much _more_ than a friend. But this is wasting time and time is the one thing that you don't really have.

Throwing on your clothes after a brief shower, you rake your hands through your hair and grab your bag and jacket from the floor. Your make-up doesn't look too horrendous, though you carefully wipe away the excess eye-liner that ran in the shower. Let's face it – London weather is sketchy at the best of times, so wearing a full compliment of face paint is out of the question.

You're close enough to the Tower of London to make it your goal of the morning. It's not long until you're trotting along the causeways between the towers, taking in the magical history all around you. Something rather less magical buzzes in your bag and you realise your phone is ringing. You fish it out and take the call. “Yup?”

“Good morning, love. I would say how's your head, but you sound a whole lot better than me at the moment.”

You almost walk into a wall with shock and a stupid grin. “Possibly because _I_ didn't finish the bottle.”

“You're a bad influence on me.”

“I prefer the term 'horrible little instigator'. It's more me.”

The chuckle from the other end is warm and earthy. “I bet it is. Sorry for standing you up this morning. I got badgered into a meeting with Mark and Steven.”

“Did they tell you off for hanging around strange girls who sing for a living and what a terrible crowd they run with?”

“Hmm? No, they were absolutely delighted with the music last night, they just had a couple of ideas they wanted to run past me and Steven's about to leave for Cardiff to work on the new series of _Doctor Who_ , so it was a bit of a case of now or never, I'm afraid.”

“Don't worry about it, I woke up late anyway. I got your message.”

“I thought it would be a little presumptive of me to call your phone directly.”

"Oh yes, that's MUCH less stalkerish than calling my hotel and leaving a message at reception. Ben, I _gave_ you my number. You sent me a text minutes after we said goodbye last night.”

“Tragically, there would most likely have been more if my battery hadn't died on my way back to my flat.”

“Tragically or luckily?”

“Your choice. Where are you now?”

You look around you, then consult your map. “Um, I think... this is the... Martin Tower?”

“What?”

“Doing a little sight-seeing at the Tower of London.”

“Ooh, I wouldn't recommend that. Us British have a nasty habit of lopping the heads off pretty girls there.”

“Oh-ho-ho, funny pilot.”

You can almost _hear_ the smug grin on his face. “You listen to Cabin Pressure, don't you?”

“Do shut up.”

“But _I'm_ the captain!”

“Who, I believe, was about to ask me something?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, right. I can get out of the meeting at one, so if you're still keen for lunch, I'd love to catch up with you. You can show me your photos and I can take you to a proper landmark.”

“You mean, _other_ than the one I'm in at the moment?”

“You're in a tourist trap. You need to get out before you buy something embarrassing that will sit gathering dust in your cupboards for decades.”

You dramatically press a hand to your forehead. “Oh, woe is me and thrice woe, for I have already paid the dear price for a set of shot glasses.”

“Oh no! Abort mission! Abort! Abort!”

You snort down the phone at Ben, which sets him off on hysterical laughter. You can't help laughing along with him “Oh shut up already!”

“I... I can't... bwahahaha, that was fucking hilarious!”

“Yeah, alright Mr. I'm-so-smooth-I'll-just-sleep-on-the-steps-outside-your-building.”

There's silence where the laugher was. You wonder for a moment if the line has disconnected and press the phone more firmly to your ear. “Ben? Ben, are you still there?”

“Yeah... I was just thinking.”

“That must've hurt.”

“Shut up. I meant about last night. I do... um, I do think you're cute... um, pretty... um...”

“Dude, if you keep this up, you'll _really_ hurt yourself.”

“I don't know what to say! I _always_ know what to say.” You can hear the exasperation in his voice and take pity on him.

“Hey, I know I'm a sarcastic little bitch most of the time, but I promise I don't bite. I was flattered, really I was.”

“Even as ineloquent as this has been coming out?”

“Sure. It's cute. Especially from someone as loquacious as yourself.”

“Are we going to get into a battle of vocabularies?”

“Oooh, can we? _Please_?”

“As much as that sounds like brilliant fun, I actually have to go and pretend to do some work. Take some photos. I'll meet you at your hotel at two, if that's okay.”

“Yeah, 'course it is.”

“Have a good time, love. See you soon.” The phone rings off as you go to tuck it back into your bag. You look up at a portrait and smile.

“Yeah, see you soon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not affiliated with BC. Today's chapter brought to you today by Because We Can - Bon Jovi. Such a fun song.


	5. Love Is An Open Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans...

To be honest, you're not all that interested in most of London, but don't let your mother hear you say that. You'd been thoroughly turned off the smoggy, appalling, grey city as a child when you were hauled along on a family holiday there when you were ten. You flew into Manchester – fucking  _Manchester_ – to see your cousins, then spent a little while down in London.

You liked it less than you tolerated Manchester.

For a start, there were  _far_ too many people smushed into a groaning city. Far,  _far_ too many people. When you're ten and all of almost four foot nothing, it's a big, scary place to be, especially since your entire small town could fit into West End on a Saturday night. The people can be loud and rude and obnoxious and it rains  _all the time_ . You might as well lock yourself in a padded room, it would have the same effect.

These days, you're a bit kinder to old London town and indeed, Ol' Blighty herself. Then again, these days you're of age, more like five foot and a half of nothing but at least you can ease your troubled mind with a delightful glass of wine and do the things  _you_ want to do without being forced to follow your family everywhere.

Particularly when said adventurous exploits involve lunch with a terminally sexy actor who can drink scotch like it's going off and dances like a demon.

The Tower of London was, on the whole, quite interesting. You're a bit of a history nerd when it comes right down to it and took loads of photos on the camera your mum bought you last Christmas. Realising that it's almost one, you start heading back to the hotel you're staying at, an idea forming in your head.

Ben doesn't know you at all, really. Sure, he knows you're a pretty good singer and that you're not natively English, but he knows precious little about your personality and what you get up to for fun. The shit-eating grin starts to spread across your face as the plan clicks into place and you take out your phone to do a little research. If he's got the afternoon off, you know  _exactly_ what you'll be doing with him.

Mind out of the gutter. Now.

Your phone vibrates in your bag as you make back to the hotel at half past one. Pulling it out, you notice it's a text message from Ben:  _Be there soon. Meet you in the lobby?_

You respond quickly.  _Just got back. Will freshen up and meet you downstairs. For the love of God, please don't wear a suit._

Freshen up basically means wiping the build-up of London grime from your face and applying fresh make-up from last night's efforts. A light powder, some pale eye-shadow and dark eye-liner (your favourite), comfortable running shoes and clean jeans (yes, these ones are  _definitely_ clean). A touch of lip gloss – you're not exactly planning to kiss him, but you never know – and you are ready to go.

By five minutes to two, you've bounded from the lifts towards the lobby, eagerly awaiting your guest. You take a seat on one of the plush sofas and pull out a rather battered copy of your favourite book from your bag and begin to read. No sense wasting time until Ben gets here.

It is, perchance, fortuitous that you chose to bring the book with you. The minutes tick by and there's no sign of Ben. The weather outside is turning dark and you can see the first drops of rain hit the glass exterior of the doors after fifteen minutes. After a while, pretending not to notice that your 'date' is now twenty minutes late and that the rain is now starting to set in for a proper London storm, you sigh and keep reading.

After half an hour, however, you're good and solidly pissed off.

Which is incomparable to how irate you are at forty-five minutes past two. The rain is slamming down heavily outside and you sigh irritatedly.  _Just_ because he's famous  _doesn't_ excuse him being terribly late. You start to wonder if he's always like this. You head towards the lifts, ignoring the looks that the receptionist is trying not to give you and have just hit the button to head back to your room when you hear a voice call your name from behind you. You turn and face one of the most heart-melting sights you've ever been privileged to see.

Benedict is standing in the lobby, panting, soaked from head to toe in a grey cardigan, blue t-shirt and what might have been maroon jeans if they weren't darkly wet and dripping on the marble. In his right hand is a bunch wilted and wind-battered daisies that look like they've faced a hurricane and barely survived. Rain is dribbling out of his curls and puddling on the floor as his face falls at the fury fast falling from yours. “I'm  _so_ sorry, I truly am. The traffic was hell, I had to park three blocks away and I only brought my bike and I wanted to give you these, but a bus went past and I got soaked from head to toe and the wind is  _really_ atrocious out there and -” Ben stops as you cross to him, take the bunch of dead daisies from his hand and lean up to kiss his cheek gently.

“ Just saying, you could have called.”

Ben grins sheepishly. “Is there anywhere I can dry off?”

“ Come on. You can wring out upstairs.”

You tug him into the lift behind you when it arrives and press the level you are staying on. The ride is quick and it's only minutes before you're both back in your room. You're not too fussed about your clothes on the floor – really, you're in a hotel, you need space! - so you kick them to the side and point to the bathroom. “Shower's in there, along with the radiator and a spare bathrobe. Hang your stuff up, get warm and I'll order in.”

As he disappears into the bathroom, you dial room service and order up some tea and sandwiches. Hardly a feast, but if you're going to enact your plan, you need to keep your food intake to a minimum. Eating a large meal before a strenuous work-out isn't a particularly good idea on the best of days. You hear the water switch off in the bathroom and hear Ben climb out of the shower. You bite your lower lip, pushing the glorious thoughts of him dripping wet and naked out of your mind for now. This is  _not_ the time for that. This is the 'getting to know you' time. You flop backwards on the bed, squeezing your eyes shut and trying not to think about it. It's not working out so terribly well.

Well,  _shit_ .

It's not too long before you hear the hair-dryer start up as a soft knock comes at your door, indicating that room service has delivered the food you ordered. Thanking the staff member and tipping him respectfully, you bring in the delicious sandwiches and piping hot tea. You weren't sure if Ben takes his tea with milk or sugar, so you ordered both in the hopes that something will tickle his fancy.

Said dining companion steps out of the bathroom, clad only in a white and fluffy bathrobe but considerably drier than fifteen minutes ago just as you finish setting up. He takes in the food and drink and shakes his head sadly. “Not quite the lunch I envisioned taking you to.”

“ You know, in a way, I think this is better. At least there's no chance of running into a rabid fan-girl up here.”

“ True,” he acquiesces, seating himself across from you on the bed and picking up a ham sandwich, biting into it with relish. “It's not half-bad.”

You grin as you pour yourself some tea. “It's the little things, I suppose.” You take a sip of the warming beverage and settle back, listening to the wind and the rain pound at the windows. “Do you have to be anywhere this afternoon?”

“ No, but I do have to meet my parents for dinner.”

“ That's fine, I have to drop in on my family later anyway.”

“ Ah, yes, the British battalion. What rank?”

“ Aunt and uncle, on my mum's side. They'll be expecting me. Mum's basically forced me on them, backed up by my grandmother. Two very formidable women who I pray you never have the misfortune of running across.”

“ Maybe one day.”

“ But definitely not today.”

Ben chuckles as he polishes off his sandwich and goes for another while simultaneously reaching to pour himself some tea. The conversation is less flippant than last night as he asks about your life. You give him the brief run-down; you're a travel consultant who deals with African and European destinations and regale him with hilarious tales of your first trip abroad to Mauritius when you drank everyone under the table, had four hours sleep then went on five rather wobbly hotel inspections. In return, he tells you about the car-jacking in South Africa, to which you listen with rapt attention. The topic swings back to travel in general as Ben sips his tea. “So where haven't you been that you really,  _really_ want to go?”

You smile around the sandwich you're chewing. “You really want to know?”

“ 'Course.”

“ Antarctica.”

“ _Really_ ?”

“ Mm-hmm. We did a project on it in school when I was twelve and I just became fascinated with the place. The only continent on Earth without any native fauna? That's gotta be cool.” Ben huffs a laugh at the unintentional pun you let slip and you punch him lightly in the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

The rain outside has eased off and Ben's hair has rid itself of the last of the moisture he couldn't blitz with the hair-dryer. You reach up and rearrange an errant curl without thinking, then let your eyes drop to his. He's looking at you with a warm curiousness that makes you feel a little nervous but mostly just comfortable with him. After all, he's sitting on your bed wearing nothing but a bathrobe drinking rapidly cooling tea and eating sandwiches. He leans his head towards your hand slightly. “What was that for?”

“ I... I dunno. There was a curl out of place. I'm sorry, I shouldn't...”

“ No... no, it's... it's okay. It was a very sweet gesture. Thank you.”

Ben leans in a little, closing the distance between you. It's times like these that you really feel like a teenager; awkward and shy, quite at odds over what to do really. You've known each other less than a day and now? Now you have to make the decision whether to throw down on the bed right here, right now, or take the high road. The light catches on his eyes and makes them twinkle a little and that's when you make your decision. You take your hand from his hair and press it gently against his chest. “No.”

He hesitates, confusing clouding his face. “No? You don't... you don't want me to kiss you?”

“No, I  _do_ want that. But not right now. Ben, I'm... I'm not  _that_ kind of girl any more, as much as I'd like to be. God only knows my hormones are screaming at me to push you up against a wall and have my wicked way with you.” A small smile creeps across his sullen face like sunshine after the rain and you let out a long breath. “See, this is going to sound really stupid, but... do you remember  _The Vicar of Dibley_ ?”

“Oh, yeah, Richard was in that.”

“Richard?”

“Armitage. I worked on  _The Hobbit_ with him.”

“Oh yes, that's right. Anyway, there's a scene where he and Dawn French – the vicar – go on their first date and she says that as a vicar, she really can't kiss him on the first two dates. On the third, it's a different story. It's not that I'm a vicar, I just think... well,  _that's_ a nice way to do it. Old-fashioned courtship.” The words feel childish as they come out of your mouth and for a moment, Ben looks away. Your heart leaps into your throat – could you have blown it with him?

Benedict sits straighter on the bed and you can almost  _see_ the respect oozing from him as he meets your eyes again. “So, what you're saying is, you're not turning me down for a kiss because you don't like me, but because you want to get to know me first?”

“Is that so strange?”

He gives a bark of a laugh. “In my line of work, it  _definitely_ is.” He stands from the bed and holds his hands out to you. “I promise I won't try and kiss you, but I  _would_ like to give you a hug, if that's okay.”

You break out in a giant grin. “That's perfect.” You get up and walk around to him, allowing yourself to be pulled into his long-armed embrace. As you lay your head against his chest, he rests his nose in your hair, breathing in the smell of your shampoo. The two of you stay like that for a little while, just enjoying being close to each other. You nuzzle against the soft fabric of the bathrobe for a moment, then look up at him. “Ben?”

“What?”

“Also, just saying, I am absolutely  _not_ a virgin.”

He laughs, squeezing you tightly. “Love, it wouldn't have mattered if you were.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still absolutely no affiliation with BC. Today's chapter brought to you today by Love Is An Open Door - Kristen Bell & Santino Fontana from Frozen.


	6. Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family dinners are the same, no matter where you're from.

The streetlights are just about all on as you trudge through the thin layer of snow that covers the path from the station to your aunt and uncle's house. You remember it from your first trip to London; a tiny, squishy but cosy three storey town-house that was only three storeys because your uncle converted the attic to a cosy little bedroom.

Warm, welcoming light spills out onto the doorstep after you arrive and knock gently on the door, bouncing in place to stop the cold that seems to be intent on burrowing into your bones. Your aunt grins at you and grabs you into a bear hug. “My  _word_ , haven't you gotten tall! Come in out of the cold, already!”

“ In all fairness, it's not hard to be tall in this family,” you chuckle, stomping your boots clear of snow on the mat, stepping inside and hanging up your scarf. “Height is probably the one thing we are  _definitely_ not noted for.”

“ Oi, speak for yourself, short-ass!” You grin, knowing who belongs to that voice. Your cousin Sam peeks his head around the bannister, pulling a stupid face. You've stayed in touch through the years and he even came to see you when he was on holiday last. “Well, at least you're not quite as teeny-tiny as you were last time you dropped in.”

“ Shut up, Sam-bot!” Sam laughs and jumps the last few steps, running to sweep you up in a hug. Sam's a little older than you and probably twice as tall, but he's a keen cricketer and is working his way up to the big leagues. You giggle into his shoulder. “Put me down before you drop me!”

“ You'd bounce and you know it!” Sam nevertheless lowers you carefully and smiles warmly at you. “Glad you're back.”

“ Almost didn't come, but you know what Mum's like.”

Sam shivers dramatically. “Ooh, yes. Wouldn't want to be on her bad side.”

“ When you two have finally stopped jabbering away in there, dinner's on the table!”

You grab Sam's arm and march him into the kitchen, where your aunt has just laid out a really  _yummy_ looking roast dinner. You both drop down in chairs next to each other as everyone starts tucking into their food. Your uncle gives you a warm smile. “It's  _good_ to have you here, sweetie. We always said your mum should have raised you here.”

“ Yeah, but I don't think we would have had the same opportunities over here as we did back home.”

“ Oh yes, the party last night, of course. How did it go?”

“ The band were great and we got a great response. I haven't heard anything from Simeon, but then again he could just be sleeping off the hangover he was undoubtedly afflicted with.”

Sam snorts into his gravy – nice to know  _that_ trait runs in the family – as your aunt frowns at him. “Enough, Sam, behave yourself. So... are you seeing anyone at the moment, dear? When I spoke to your mum last, she said that you still hadn't found a nice boy to settle down with.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of  _course_ this was going to come up at dinner. It very nearly always does. You very nearly open your mouth to say that no, you're not and quite happily so, when the memory of ginger curls and a bathrobe floods into your mind. You grin evilly. “Actually, yes, I am. It's all still very new and we haven't been together long, but I hope it will end up being something terrific.”

Sam almost chokes on his roast potato and shoots you a sidelong look as if to say  _you didn't tell me that_ as you demurely chew on a piece of Yorkshire pudding. You aunt beams. “Oh, that's  _wonderful_ news! What's the lucky fellow's name?”

“ Ben. His name is Ben.”

“ And what does Ben do?”

“ He's, uh, bit of an artist, you could say.”

“ Stable job, though?”

“ Oh yes. He's really doing well with it.”

“ And how did you two meet?”

“ At one of my gigs, actually. We got chatting beforehand and he caught up with me afterwards. Like I said, it's all very new, so I don't know how serious it is yet.”

“ Very sensible, young lady. Sam? Are you alright?”

Sam is still struggling with his potato as he flushes it down with a glass of water. He nods and wipes his mouth. “Fine, just fine.” He bends his head forward and murmurs so that only you can hear. “You've  _got_ to tell me about this and not the bullshit you're feeding them.”

The rest of the meal flies by quite charmingly by your family's standards. You help with the dishes and drop down next to Sam on the couch as your aunt and uncle both give you a kiss on your cheek. “Sam will drive you back to your hotel if you want, sweetie, but you can always stay here the night if you want to.”

“ Thanks, I think I might crash here. Sammy and I are going to catch up over a beer and I don't want him driving if he's had a few.”

“ Alright. Sam, you take good care of her.”

“ Yes, mum, I know.” With that, your aunt and uncle retire upstairs. It takes Sam all of three seconds after the door clicks shut to turn to you. “What the hell, man? Since when do  _you_ date?”

“ I know, I know.”

“ Either you're lying your ass off – which I know you are, but about something else – or you've really gone and  _met someone._ ”

“ Seriously, Sam, I swear to you, it's a surprise to me as well.”

“ So? Tell me about him!”

“ Most of what I said is true. His name is Ben and we met at a gig.”

“ Yeah? And?”

You huff out a breath. “But that gig was last night, he's not  _exactly_ my boyfriend and his full name is Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Sam's lower jaw is threatening to unhinge and drop off as he stares at you in disbelief. “Whoa.”

“ Yep.”

“ So you...”

“ Got absolutely smashed with a hot actor then had lunch with him today? Yes.”

“ And he...”

“ Texted me from the cab home and was forty-five minutes late to lunch this afternoon? Yep.”

Sam is looking at you with renewed respect. “ _Jesus_ , no  _wonder_ you didn't want to tell 'em.”

“ Exactly.”

“ They'd know you were lying through your teeth to get them off your back.”

“ Precisely – wait, what?”

“ Oh come  _on_ , you can't actually expect  _me_ to believe that codswallop, can you?”

“ Sam, I'm not kidding you, I swear. I actually, honest-to-God, had lunch with Sherlock himself.”

“ Pffsht.” You throw your hands up in the air. You might've known Sam wouldn't believe you and it's not like you've got a photo with Ben to  _prove_ it. You never thought that you might  _need_ to. Sighing, you pull out your phone and flick to your messages. Finding the message he sent you last night, you all but push the screen into Sam's face.

“ SEE?”

“ Dude, that's just signed 'B'. Seriously, that could be  _anyone_ for all I know, not just your supposed lover-boy detective.”

“ Shut up, he's not my lover-boy! He's... he's a really nice guy who is occasionally late to appointments.”  _More like couldn't be on-time to save his life_ , you think to yourself, but you smile a little at the notion. Sam shakes his head.

“ Look, all I'm saying is that I'm going to need more evidence than this to believe my cousin is dating Sherlock, right?”

You stuff the phone back in your pocket and huff. “ _Fine_ . But  _when_ I prove you wrong – and I  _will_ prove you wrong - I want a full and unmitigated apology from you.”

“ Deal.”

Conversation sort of peters out after that, as Sam gets you both a beer and you settle down to watch a good, old-fashioned action flick. Sam being Sam, of course, goes with an classic –  _Die Hard_ . He loves it for Bruce Willis. You love it for the explosions and Alan Rickman. The alcohol works its magic and an hour in, Sam is snoring against your shoulder. You grin and place your half-finished beer on the coffee table and fetch a blanket. Rearranging your cousin the best you can, you pull the coverlet over him and push a cushion under his head. He snuggles down and smiles as you take up post across from him on the other couch.

As the movie finishes and you're tidying up the small pigsty you and your cousin have created, you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You check the clock on the mantlepiece – it's just after midnight. Who would be calling you at this time of night?

You put the last bottle into the recycling bin and fish your phone out of your jeans, swiping the screen and pressing it against your ear, whispering so as not to wake Sam. “Hello?”

“ Sorry, love, I forgot it was so late. Did I wake you?”

“Nah, Sammy's asleep on the couch, so I was just cleaning up. Apparently Bruce just doesn't keep him awake any more.”

“Sammy?”

“My cousin, Sam. I'm at my aunt and uncle's house.” You balance the phone on your shoulder as tuck in said older cousin's feet. “How was dinner with the parents?”

“Quite nice, actually. Dad was asking about the party last night and Mum was asking if I'd met anyone nice, which is her code for 'did you meet your future wife and mother of my grandchildren'.” You can hear the chuckle in his voice, which has the side-effect of making you grin like a loon.

“So... what did you say to that?”

“Well, you're not exactly  _nice_ , per se...”

“Benedict!”

He's full-on laughing now. “Sorry! I couldn't help it! No, I told her that I'd been chatting to a lovely singer at the party and that we seemed to have a lot in common. What about you?”

“Exact wording?”

“As close as you can muster.”

“She asked me if I was seeing someone. Told her I was seeing an artist named Ben and that while it was early days, I hoped it could be something good.” The other end of the phone goes quiet for a moment and you start to wonder if you've put your foot well and truly in it. “Ben? Are you there?”

“Yeah... yeah, I'm still here.”

“Sorry, did I fuck up?”

“No! I mean, no, not at all. I was just smiling to myself. So you... you hope it goes well, do you?”

You toy with the ends of your hair, biting your lower lip for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah I... I guess I do.”

“I mean, I like you a lot.”

“I like you, too.”

“And there was that almost-kiss today.”

“A very-nearly kiss, indeed.”

“So...”

“So?”

“So... d'you think we could try? I mean, we don't have to start calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend, it's  _far_ too soon for that. But... I'd like to see you again. On... on a date, maybe?”

Forcing the excited scream bubbling inside you down, you dip your head a little. “That'd be lovely. I accept.”

Benedict huffs a breath down the phone at you. “For a moment there, I thought you would say no.”

“On one condition.”

“Name your price.”

“I choose where we go.”

“Oh God... what do you have in mind?”

This is it. The idea you've been planning all afternoon and probably would have gone through with if it hadn't rained. You take a deep breath and start to sing softly, trying not to break out in fits of giggles. “Ben? Do you wanna go to laser taaaag...”

“Oh... oh christ, you're...”

“C'mon, let's go and play! We'll shoot at each other and rack up high-scores, hopefully mine'll be more, we could totally go today!”

“Seriously, if...”

“If you wanna be best buddies, I suggest you come. Come on, I swear it's fun!”

“For the love of -”

“Will you come and play laser tag? It probably won't even be THAT bad...”

“Okay, fine.” Ben's words are awkwardly melodic as you stifle the laughter that seems to be threatening to choke you. “How long were you working on that one?”

“All afternoon.”

“I had a feeling you would say that.”

“So? Will you come?”

“When?”

“I'll be back from Manchester in three days. Does that work for you?”

“I have a convention in the morning, but if you have an afternoon train, I can pick you up from the station and we can go straight there.”

“You'll have to bring the car.”

“That's fine. Anyway, it's getting a bit late, I should be getting some sleep. Goodnight, love. Sleep well.”

“Nightio, Ben. Ooh, could you do something for me? I swear it's not a bad thing.”

“What?”

“Would you... would you take a photo of yourself and send it to me? I want to use it as your contact photo.”

“Sure. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You end the call and look over at Sam, who is snoring his head off. Your phone vibrates in your hand and you peer down at the text message. It's a picture of Ben, smiling and waving at the camera. Beneath it is a short message;

_See you in three days, Princess Anna. - B._

Sam's so gonna regret it in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is brought to you today by the song Do You Wanna Build A Snowman from the movie Frozen.
> 
> Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! I stayed up to publish this chapter before I fell asleep.
> 
> Still not affiliated with BC. Or Frozen. But I will be meeting BC next month...


	7. Angel With A Shotgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gives you something to think about - game on!

It's the hardest thing you've ever done, going to Manchester for three days, especially when every fibre of your being is screaming at you to go back to London. It's not that you don't  _like_ your family – far from it, you love them very much – but growing up away from all that makes it difficult to connect the same way the rest of your friends do with theirs.

That being said, as you look out the window over the icy fields capped with a gunmetal-grey sky as the train races from Euston Station northbound, you can't help but be a little excited. Presents for your other cousins are stuffed into your almost-bursting suitcase and you're about to meet your baby second cousin for the first time.

Sam had dropped you at the station, after swinging past your hotel to pick up your suitcase. After pulling up just outside of the taxi rank, he helped you unload quickly and you had flashed Benedict's late-night message at him. Willing to accept it – for now – Sam had put his hands on your shoulders.

“ Dude, are you  _sure_ you know what you're doing with this guy?”

“ Sam, I'm over twenty-one. I'm pretty certain that if everything goes westward, I can be a big girl and handle it with unusual aplomb.”

“ No, I'm being serious. If it gets out that you're dating a famous actor...”

“ Sam, I really -”

“ Shut up and let me finish!” Your cousin looks pale – well, paler than usual. “Ben's a very well-known guy. Once the paps find out you're dating, your private life is over. You might even be accused of trying to ride his coat-tails to success.”

You had looked completely scandalised. “But I'm  _not_ !”

“ I know, but that's not how they're going to see it. You two met at a gig to which he was invited. Hell, a whole  _host_ of other famous people were invited. To you and them, it was a great party. To everyone  _not_ in the know, it was drumming up new business. Hooking up with the BBC's MVP just to raise your profile.”

You stopped a moment, there. You had never considered what it all looked like from the outside. “It's okay, Sam. Really. I've got nothing to hide.”

“ Dearheart, _everyone_ has something to hide. Some things fit in the closet. Some are the elephant in the room. Just... just be careful, alright? Because I'll  _kill_ the bastard if he hurts you.”

“ Roger that, Sammy. See you soon.”

So you had lugged your suitcase and laptop in, picked up your ticket – you splurged a bit and went first class for the comfort and the wi-fi – and are now speeding north for a few days. The train lunch is bearable, thank goodness, as you flick through your emails. Most notably, Simeon - having slept off his hangover and apparently gotten  _very_ lucky with Marketing the night of the party - has sent you a brief note thanking you for your services as the band had received rave reviews from the guests. He hints at the possibility of using your talents in the near future, but is no more specific than that.

Grinning from ear to ear, you pop your headphones on to watch a movie as the train continues its journey.

The stay with your family goes remarkably well. The presents are well-received and you completely  _adore_ your baby second cousin, though you have to question your older cousin's choice of name for her son – Alfred. Still, he gurgles and grins gummily at you in the most endearing way with his big blue eyes and curly blonde hair. You're not much for small children, but he  _is_ gorgeous. Your aunt and uncle (the second batch of the English reserve) are happy to see you and you find yourself telling many a tale of your home and adventures, resorting finally to pulling up Youtube videos of your gigs before they ask you to sing  _again_ .

The days fly by and before you know it, you're on your way back to London again. You've been trading flirty text messages with Ben during your stay and even managed one late-night conversation (which was  _incredibly_ hard to remain calm during as his voice had been tired, husky and low, all of which had done  _nothing_ to help you steel your resolve of holding out a little bit longer). Truth be told, you're not quite sure what to expect once you get back. Surely the fire of an initial attraction can't hold out  _that_ long? Still, you texted your train arrival details through to Ben, who promised that he absolutely  _would_ be on-time and might even be early.

The sleek silver metallic slug chugs into Euston at around three in the afternoon. As you struggle with your bright blue hardcase out of the train car, you hear your name being shouted from the other end of the platform. You look up to see Benedict sprinting towards you, kitted out in black jeans, white tee covered with a plaid shirt and a flatcap balancing atop his curls. His face is lit up with a giant grin as he slows down and opens his arms to give you a hug. You let go of the case to jog a few step and throw your arms around him, squeezing his middle until he pleads for air. Releasing him from the bear hug, he leans down and places a gentle kiss on your cheek. “Did you have fun?”

“ As much as I could, really. How was the convention?”

“ Surprisingly, not that bad. I got the usual bunch of inane questions, but then they really started coming up with some truly brilliant queries. I swear, every time I think I've got my fans pegged, they do something that completely throws me and makes me question everything I know about them,” Ben fondly admits as you retrieve your suitcase and rejoin him.

“ Isn't that the best way to have it?”

“ Of course.” He nudges you gently with his elbow. “Glad to have you back, you know. I missed you.”

You blush faintly, a smile creeping over your face as you nudge him back. “Missed you, too. You ready for this afternoon?”

“ Hopefully. I've got a change of shoes in the car. Do you want to leave the suitcase in there or do you want me to swing by the hotel and you can go get checked in first?”

“ Easier if we go straight there, I think. Can I leave this in the back of your car?”

“ Yeah, that's fine. You keen to go play, then?”

“ Dead keen. I haven't played in a while and it's going to be on a different course to the one at home. You might actually have a chance, Cumberbatch.”

Ben raises an eyebrow at you as you exit the busy station and head towards the parking area. “Oh, is that so?”

“ Yup. On my home turf, you wouldn't stand a chance.”

“ Oh, now you see, that sounds like a challenge.”

You follow Ben to the side of his car and bite your lower lip, grinning devilishly. “Maybe it is.”

He pops the boot, lifting the case in for you. “Care to make a wager, then?”

“ What are we betting on?”

“ I bet I'll top your strikes. If I win, you let me take you to dinner afterwards.”

“ And if you lose?”

“ Your choice.”

You consider this for a moment, then nod. “Done.” You hold out a hand and he shakes it, sealing the deal. “You should know, I'm a brilliant shot. Loads of practice.”

Ben chuckles and closes the boot, opening the driver-side door. “You're forgetting, love. I'm an actor. I've got _actual_ shooting  practice.”

“ In the dark? Under strobe lighting?” His confident smirk wavers as you open your door and slide in. “You might be a good shot, but I'm  _really_ good.”

The arena isn't far, but that doesn't stop the pair of you good-naturedly bickering and bragging about how the other is going to completely fail at the game. You're not above a bit of shit-talking – it's probably the best bit of a friendly game – and you're almost sad when Ben pulls into the car park. The arena is about ten minutes away from the hotel and is a hulking building made of sheet metal and brick. Ben climbs out and looks up at it. “You sure this is the right place?”

You check your phone for the email confirmation. “Very sure. It's huge. I wasn't expecting it to be this big?”

He shoots you a sidelong grin. “Nervous?”

You tuck your phone back into your bag. “Hardly. The course must have a lot of vantage points. I'm gonna  _enjoy_ this. Lots of running around, sniping people off... ah, I have missed this!”

Benedict laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulders. “You murderous woman, what am I going to do with you?”

“ Well, given our little wager, you should be trying to put me out of commission!”

“ Oh, believe me, I haven't forgotten about that.”

The pair of you walk into the warm lobby and are greeted by the attendant, who directs you to the lockers where you can store your valuables. Taking down a vest connected to a light gun, you fit it snugly to your chest as you turn around and see Ben struggling with his. You help him on with his own and show him the correct way to hold the gun – one hand on the grip and trigger, the other supporting the barrel. As you suspected, the gun was of the type that if you removed your hand from under the barrel, it would not fire. You point this out as you adjust his grip for optimal firing. Ben smiles at you softly as you take one last look over his vest, tightening the pull-tags. “You're making it easier for me to win, you know that.”

“ I'm making it easier for you to stand a chance. You don't want to be completely beaten by a girl, do you?”

“ You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?”

“ Look, Ben, how many times have you done this?”

“ Er...”

“ Exactly. This is practically my weekend past-time at home. There, I think you're about ready to go.” You step back to admire your handiwork. The white tee Ben is wearing will show up beautifully under the black-light inside. It's the reason you went with a dark-coloured outfit. You pat him gently on the shoulder. “Look, it's just fun, in the end. Don't take it too seriously. I talk a lot of smack, really. I think you'll be great.”

“ Yeah?”

“ Of course you will. You might even beat me.”

“ The wager still stands on that. Have you decided what to take in recompense if you win?”

“ Not sure yet. First-born child might be nice -” You laugh as Ben's eyebrows shoot upwards. “I'm kidding! God, you're  _so_ easy to wind up!” Ben sticks his tongue out at you and waggles his hands above his head, causing you to laugh harder. A klaxon sounds behind you, signalling the players to the rally point in order to begin the game. You grab Ben's arm and drag him with you. “Come on, Master Chief. It's game on.”

Indeed it was.

Half a minute after entering the maze-like course, Benedict simply vanishes from your side. You're a little impressed, to speak the truth. He's freakishly tall – compared to you –  _and_ he's wearing white. He must've been bloody good at hide-and-seek as a kid. You raise your gun, bringing it level to your shoulder and set your sight down the barrel. He wants to hide? Fine. You'll be a hunter.

It doesn't take long to find him. Ben's got his back pressed again the wall in one of the small forts in the back of the arena, fending off enemy fire from a half-dozen high-schoolers. Lurking in the shadows, you casually snipe them off one at a time until Ben can finish the rest. You slip away, unnoticed, as he looks around for the unknown shooter.

The siren sounds, signalling half-time on the game. The lights switch on as you navigate to the entry point of the area and you hear rather than see Ben fall into step behind you. Grinning, you half-turn your head to the side. “So how's it going so far, Hawkeye?”

“ Brilliantly. I managed to take out a whole pack of attackers near the fort!”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head. “Whatever floats you boat, dude.”

“ Where did  _you_ disappear to? I don't think I saw you once in there!”

“ That's because I'm wearing dark colours and don't draw as much fire as you and your garishly white shirt.”

“ Oh,” Ben muses, looking down at his shirt as he draws alongside you. “I should have thought about that.”

“ Yes, yes you should. You also didn't make half of those shots. I did.”

He's a little pensive as you make your way out of the arena and check the scoreboards. Ben's doing alright – his hit rate is almost on your level, but your accuracy rating is much,  _much_ higher. You're still pretty impressed that he can hold his own against you. He grins and winks at you. “I think I might actually beat you.”

“ Depends on what you're going by. At the moment, I'm thumping you in accuracy.”

“ Hey, so long as it's a qualified shot, it counts!”

“ Ben, you'd get yourself  _killed_ thinking like that if this were real.”

Your companion blows a raspberry at you, indicating that it was, indeed, that time of the night when even fully-grown adults receded to five year old children. “Nuh-uh.”

“Oh-ho-ho, yes, sir.” The siren sounds again and you prepare to go back into battle. The high-schoolers you're playing against have noticed you two and are whispering among themselves furtively. Ben turns away and tugs on your hand to lead you back into the arena. You throw a look back over your shoulder at the rapidly shrinking group. “What was all that about?”

“I think we've been recognised.”

“What?”

“I think they know who we – well, who  _I_ am.”

Ah. This was going to be interesting. You look up at Benedict, who seems to have settled his face into a look of grim determination. You can't imagine what it's like; constantly having your day interrupted by people who want a piece of you... and yet you can imagine it from the other side – you and your friends are out at your local hangout and suddenly a super-famous person suddenly appears without warning! How exciting! You shake your head sadly. It's not an ideal situation for anyone, but Ben seems to handle it better than most. You face him at the door to the arena and place a hand on his forearm. “Ben, it's okay. If you want to leave, we can go somewhere else...”

“No! I'm not leaving because I  _think_ I've been recognised! God, what kind of weakling does  _that_ ? No, I think they've worked out who's been sniping them off while they hunt me,” he chuckles, shifting his gun in his grip. “You'd better watch your back – I think they'll be after you next.”

It turns out that Benedict is right on the money. This time, you find yourself having to be more careful – the high-schoolers have fanned out and seem to be driving you to the back of the arena. On a particularly opportune moment, you slip past a tall, gangy boy of around seventeen as he checks his rapid-fire status. While you sneak around the corner, you lean back and take a clean shot to the back of his vest, hearing the buzzer sound as it registers a hit. The boy's anguished cry makes you giggle as you return to your vantage point behind the hunting team. It's a tense twenty minutes as the pounding house music keeps your heart-rate elevated and you dodge and roll from incoming fire. Now that the kids know what you look like, they seem to be hunting you both. Occasionally, you spot Ben, taking a good shot after you've been put out of commission temporarily by a shot to the gun and/or vest or if he's spotted you pinned down by a contingent of the group. Similarly, you pull him out of some tight scrapes and freed him up to run between fortresses during the final minutes of the game.

The klaxon that signals the end of the game sounds and the house lights go on. You squint around, looking for your companion. “Ben?”

He stands up, having folded himself behind a lurid green barrel to your left and gives a small wave. “Here.”

“Well, that was  _epic_ . I haven't had that much fun in  _ages_ !”

Ben grins and flips his gun over his shoulder, holding out his arm to escort you. “Shall we?”

With a deep breath, you take his arm and start for the door. “Let's go see what the damage is.”

It turns out, surprisingly, that the high-schoolers had beaten you both. Ben had, indeed, managed to pull barely ahead with his hit-rate, but your accuracy rating was eighty percent - a clear twenty-five percent better than his. He grins at you as you read the board. “So does this mean I win or do you win?”

“I think... I think we both win. Therefore, I think we both get prizes.”

“Fantastic, I have just the thing in mind.”

“Yeah? What's that?”

“Chinese take-out, eaten in a park while we make up stupid jokes and snort into our Hokkien noodles.”

You smile and hug his arm as he walks you both to the door. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a plan to include more in this chapter, but as it was getting to be close to 3k, I just wanted shot of it and I can always expand the next one. Today's episode brought to you by Angel With A Shotgun - The Cab. Enjoy!  
> (Still not affiliated with anyone mentioned.)

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers apply - I'm not BC, I'm not affiliated with BC, etc, etc.


End file.
